


The Road is Hard

by StarkRogers



Series: Witcher Fic [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Camping, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hand Jobs, Hiking, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier has no idea, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Slow Burn, Smut, all the smut is at the end, hiking is hard and so is camping outside, until you've done it you have no idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: Jaskier doesn't know a damn thing about life on the road, so when he starts travelling with Geralt he has to learn the hard way. This fic has three parts: the first part a smattering of first experiences for Jaskier as he adapts to life on the road, and how Geralt slowly develops a fondness for the bard. The second part is a dramatic rescue involving a gryphon. The third part is all the pieces finally falling in place.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Fic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054499
Comments: 42
Kudos: 317





	1. Learning the Ropes

When Geralt first met the bard, Jaskier knew nothing about life on the road. Oh, he thought he did - he owned a bed roll, and claimed he’d slept outside plenty of times: on main roads, close to towns, in a barn here or there... but the bard mainly slept in beds. Inn beds, lover’s beds, one-night fling beds. Jaskier was soft, and the first week on the path with Geralt was quite literally painful. Geralt wasn’t being purposefully cruel to Jaskier, there was simply nothing he could do to make life on the road comfortable for someone who wasn’t used to it. When it rained, they got soaked; when it was hot, they roasted. Fruit went bad, wet bread turned moldy - that’s just how it was.

The first major issue: despite owning a bedroll, Jaskier had no idea how to set up a camp. This was obvious the first night they stopped in the middle of nowhere. Geralt had been sure that no one could be incompetent at setting up a bedroll: you just picked a good spot and unrolled it. 

Jaskier flopped open his bedroll almost immediately, much more quickly than Geralt. As he watched Geralt fuss over his chosen spot he joked about how picky the tough Witcher was. Geralt ignored him. The trouble with sleeping outdoors was, firstly, that the ground was rarely if ever flat. The trick then became figuring out a way to angle oneself on a slope so that your feet were lower than your head. The next challenge was all the debris - there were always sticks and rocks and nuts. Geralt took his time sweeping away all the debris, patted down some dirt to fill in a few holes, and dug out a rock or two before finally settling down his bedroll.  
  
“Do you spin around three times before laying down?” Jaskier scoffed, and Geralt ignored him.

Geralt would have had a very restful night, had he not had to listen to Jaskier shifting and fussing all night long, muttering about rocks and lumps in the ground and how uncomfortable he was.

The next night, Jaskier was much more careful about picking his spot.

\---

The next problem was Jaskier’s boots. At the very least they were broken in, so his feet weren’t a bloody mess by the end of the first day. No, those blisters took several days to develop, because his boots simply weren’t made for walking. Jaskier limped along as the blisters got worse but managed to keep up. He didn’t suffer in silence by any means - he was extremely vocal about how much his feet hurt, the whinging speckled in with his usual jabber, singing, and plucking at his lute. Geralt was subtly impressed he was managing to be optimistic despite the pain he was obviously in.

And that was just the blisters.

Jaskier’s boots were thickly soled for fashionable purposes, which one would think would be an asset on the road, but it really wasn’t: his boots were too heavy. He tripped far more often than he needed to because exhaustion caused his feet to drag. The third day on the path it rained, and the sun-parched road turned into a thick layer of mud floating on top of dust and dirt, incredibly slick and extremely sticky, clinging to one’s feet in ever-thickening layers with every step. The banks beside the road were steeply sloped and not ideal for walking - especially not for a horse, so Geralt tramped and slipped through the mud as best he could until even Roach stumbled, and he was finally forced to move them off the road and up onto the bank. He pulled her up into the woods until she was standing on level ground, then set to scraping the thick, heavy, clay-like mud off the sides and bottoms of her hooves.

Geralt lifted his head when he was done and suddenly realized Jaskier wasn’t nearby. He’d noted the rain was dampening the bard’s mood earlier in the day, but as he stepped out of the woods and glanced back down the road the bard was nowhere near. In the distance he saw a dark figure through the rain, taking a few incredibly slow steps, then sinking down against the bank for a few moments before getting back up and making it a few feet closer before having to stop again. Geralt sighed through his nose, and looked up at Roach.  
  
“Stay.” 

Roach was more than happy to stay, up out of the mud and protected from the rain under the cover of foliage. Geralt followed the sloped bank of the road back through the rain towards Jaskier, and found him just as the bard was collapsing back down to the ground to wipe the mud off his boots again. Despite the cold rain Geralt could smell sweat on him, and he was visibly panting. The thick soles of his boots were not only heavy on their own, their increased surface area ensured he had twice as much mud on his feet.  
  
“Oh - no worries,” Jaskier said between heavy breaths. “Just - right behind you. Just a bit of trouble with the mud.” Jaskier glanced at Geralt’s feet, which while coated with mud, were not caked in several inches of it like Jaskier’s. “How - how’re you-”  
  
“Walk on the bank,” Geralt ordered.  
  
“But you weren’t walking on the bank before,” Jaskier countered, nodding towards the obvious tracks in the road.  
  
“Had to stop for Roach,” Geralt replied, and then he turned to head back. He made it back to Roach, and a few minutes later Jaskier appeared through the brush, still looking exhausted but slightly less encumbered. The rain was obviously making the road impassable for Roach and it didn’t seem to be letting up any time soon, so Geralt decided to just make camp for the day. They weren’t going anywhere in the mud and he didn’t particularly feel like hacking his way through the woods if he didn’t have to. And… if that just so happened to benefit the exhausted bard, it definitely wasn’t on purpose. 

\---

The next problem was that Jaskier couldn’t start a fire. Geralt could start a fire in the pouring rain or in the middle of winter with or without Ignii; a Witcher couldn’t always depend on magic. He was skilled with flint and steel, and could start a fire without them if necessary. Jaskier… Jaskier didn’t even know how to find dry tinder. To his credit he did follow Geralt into the woods every night as he went to search for everything they’d need, and caught on quickly. By the end of the first week Geralt actually trusted the bard enough to fetch tinder on his own, which seemed to make Jaskier wildly happy. Geralt had been doing all of this on his own for years; he didn’t really need the help, but it was nice to delegate one or two simple tasks anyway, and seeing Jaskier taking the job of collecting tinder so seriously was amusing.

Once Jaskier knew how to find tinder, Geralt schooled him on the fine points of actually starting a fire. The bard complained that Geralt made him do it without a flint and steel at first, but Geralt explained that being able to do it under the most dire of circumstances was the most important skill of all; learning how to do it under duress meant you’d never take it for granted when you had the proper tools around.  
  
Geralt found himself teaching Jaskier many things, not just because he had to (a travelling companion who didn’t know anything was both a burden and a danger) but because he was enjoying it. Jaskier wanted to learn so earnestly that Geralt couldn’t help himself - it was like Jaskier’s thirst for knowledge had opened a fount inside Geralt, and he couldn’t stop it back up. Monster knowledge, Witcher stories, mundane things like which berries were poison, and survival skills, like how to make a poultice for wounds or survive in the cold without a blanket; Jaskier wanted to know it all. 

\---

They finally hit a town after the first week on the road. They were both tired, Jaskier moreso, and the bard immediately sought out an inn with a bath. After the rain and the poor sleep and everything else, Geralt was surprised Jaskier stuck with him once he left town again a few days later. 

The bard, to his credit, purchased a better pair of boots. He unfortunately had to break the boots in on the road, so he suffered for several days as the leather slowly worked itself supple. The leather molded its way around his feet, cut into his toes on his left foot for a whole day before easing up, and dug into his ankle the next day. But after a few days his steps were significantly lighter and quicker - and quieter. He’d also procured a cloak and a proper pack to carry everything with so he no longer looked like he’d been kicked out the door with little notice. His hiking speed increased not simply due to practice, but by having better shoes and a better balanced load on his back.

Geralt was impressed at how determined the bard was to keep up with him - and that he was obviously making an effort to not only make himself more comfortable on the road, but to be a better companion.

\---

The last hurdle was less serious but far more amusing and simultaneously annoying: Jaskier hated bathing in cold water, but also hated smelling like 2 weeks of road sweat. He whined about it constantly between towns, but they usually didn’t spend more than a week between stops, so Jaskier suffered with weekly baths for the first month or so. This resulted in Geralt actually being cleaner than Jaskier in a few cases, at least at first, because he was more than happy to step into a chilly river or lake to get clean.

The first time Jaskier finally bathed in a river was a fond memory for Geralt. They were camped near the water and Geralt was quite happy to have the chance to rinse off; they hadn’t made it back to town yet and he was covered in grime from the remains of the recent contract, and it had been two weeks on top of that since they’d been in town. Even Geralt had to admit he was getting a bit ripe, so once they worked through setting up camp he set off for the water. 

He pulled off his armor - that would have to be washed properly up at camp - and his clothes, then stepped into the river naked with a groan of happiness as the icy cold water enveloped his toes. He strode in up to his waist and then dunked himself completely under the surface, rising with a hoot as the cold water shocked his system. He turned sharply as something snapped up on the riverbank-

Only to find Jaskier struggling with a bush caught in his doublet, looking grumpier than usual. 

“Blast-” Jaskier yanked, and finally freed himself from the grasp of the bush, and collapsed down onto the rocks beside the river. Geralt pondered him.

“River’s not warm,” Geralt noted, and Jaskier sighed dramatically.  
  
“I’d feared that,” he said. “But I just can’t take it any longer,” he said as he pulled off his shoes. He set the doublet to the side, then pulled his shirt up and over, folding it neatly with the other bits of clothing. Geralt watched for a few moments before realizing he probably shouldn’t, so he got to work rinsing all the muck out of his hair. They had bathed in the same room together in inns several times by now, so it wasn’t as if they’d never seen one another nude, but it was still rude to stare.

Jaskier finished disrobing up on the shore, and Geralt heard him walk up to the water… and yelp as the water licked at his toes. 

“Fucking hell Geralt, ‘river’s not warm’ - the river is barely not ice!” Jaskier exclaimed. He took a few hesitant steps in as his feet began to adjust to the temperature, but it was slow going.

“Gonna be packing up camp in the morning by the time you get in here,” Geralt noted, scrubbing his arms with his nails. Jaskier glowered at him. 

“This is unacceptable,” he grunted, barely calf-deep in the water. “My feet have gone numb already, I can’t feel my toes-”

“Then how can you still feel the cold?” Geralt mused, and Jaskier huffed even louder. After a moment Geralt stood up and walked towards the bard. Jaskier must’ve sensed something, because he took a step away back towards dry land, raising a hand and shaking a finger at Geralt.

“Oh no - no no, no - back up, Witcher, I’m not kidding, don’t you dare, I can see it on your face, you better - NO!”

Jaskier yelped as Geralt grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him up onto his shoulder and started carrying him backwards into the river. With all of Jaskier’s wiggling it was hard to keep his balance, but once he got to deep enough water it didn’t matter, and he simply fell backwards and slipped under, dragging Jaskier down with him with a loud shriek that would have impressed a banshee. In the chaos of bubbles and limbs Geralt let go and surfaced with a rarely-seen wide grin as Jaskier lunged out of the water beside him, spluttering and soaked from head to toe. 

“You - YOU are a - terrible, t-terrible person,” Jaskier chattered, but the shivers were quickly subsiding, and his sour mood faded quickly as the soothing water washed away two weeks of stress and grime. Jaskier offered Geralt some of his shampoo after a few minutes, and they both managed to leave the river smelling much cleaner and feeling much better than when they’d arrived. 

After that Jaskier was much more willing to at least come down to the water’s edge, even if he needed “convincing” sometimes to get into the water. 

\---

Jaskier learned all the skills of making a camp over those first few months, slowly building up a whole assortment of little things he could do on his own, giving Geralt time to take care of Roach, clean up after a hunt, find his own spot to sleep, and fetch water if they were near a river. After a bit of practice, Jaskier was far from useless and they became a unit when it was time to set up camp, each doing their tasks automatically without needing to ask or fumble around one another. 

Geralt also realized as the summer waned that as annoying as the bard was, he genuinely liked being helpful; his offers to assist were meant in good faith and with every intention of bettering life for everyone, not just himself. He wasn’t selfish. He was a bit spoiled, and soft, and the first to complain about any minor inconvenience, but when the road was truly difficult, he stowed all that away to keep them stocked in coin and tinder and a bright song.

There was certainly a lot to complain about on the road, but also quite a lot to enjoy, and as time went on Jaskier seemed to enjoy the road just as much as he loathed it. At least once a week Geralt rolled over in the middle of the night to find Jaskier awake, seated a bit away from camp, staring up at the stars and quietly strumming his lute, captivated by the beauty of the night sky. Geralt would watch him until his eyes grew heavy again, and would fall back asleep to the soft sound of Jaskier singing about the moon. 

Jaskier would get into bed on cold nights whining that he’d never possibly get warm, only to wake up almost every morning without fail groaning and whining that he didn’t want to get out of the warmth of his bedroll. Geralt always woke first. Initially he thought Jaskier’s morning complaining was annoying; he found though, if he just waited, in a few minutes Jaskier’s grumbles would fade away as he started contemplatively off into the morning mist and dew, and a few minutes after that he’d be out of his bedroll and humming softly to himself an idle song about the joy of early morning sunlight.

After a long day of walking, Jaskier’s mood could always be lifted by showing him a simple vista, even if it entailed more walking after setting up camp. A tiny waterfall, a break in the valley, even just some very tall rocks: Jaskier delighted in all of them and often ended up composing a short song about them during dinner. 

Geralt also began to feel he was a bit spoiled himself, because now when he came back to camp from a hunt, the fire was often already going, food already cooking, and his bedroll set up in a perfect spot. Jaskier had learned how to help him out of his armor through his incessant questions about every aspect of a Witcher’s life, so now when Geralt was sore and still weathering the last effects of potions and toxicity, Jaskier took care of him; fed him and got him out of his armor and into his bedroll so he could sleep more comfortably. Years past he would’ve just passed out hungry on top of his bedroll in his armor and slept terribly after a hard fight; now he never did. 

Even when Jaskier followed him on hunts, he became less of a nuisance, and Geralt rarely had to worry about the bard’s presence, allowing him to focus on the fights. In one or two cases Jaskier even provided helpful distractions that lead to success.

Geralt found himself pondering Jaskier on a daily basis. The bard was loud and obnoxious but clever and kind and willing to learn and adapt. At the same time Geralt found Jaskier to be indescribably stubborn at times, perfectly willing to stand up for himself and Geralt, sometimes to the point of foolhardiness. Sometimes they ended up sleeping on the road because Jaskier couldn’t let a snide comment about Witchers go unchallenged. Geralt wasn’t sure if he found that endearing or not, but he couldn’t deny his ever-growing respect for the bard.

When they parted that first fall, Geralt had to silently admit he was going to be lonely in his trek up the mountain. As if sensing weakness, though Geralt never spoke it, Jaskier made him promise they’d meet up again in the spring. Geralt agreed; and in the spring he kept his word. The smile that almost crossed his face when he saw the bard was his own secret. Jaskier’s face broke into a smile wide enough for both of them. 

And so it went for several years; Jaskier had an uncanny ability to find Geralt every spring even when they didn’t pick a place to meet, but the Witcher always tried to make himself easy to find just in case. The bard picked up a few more skills over the years, too. After a few close calls, they both decided it’d be best if Jaskier learned how to at least hold a rapier, if not be able to cut something with it. After a few lessons it was clear Jaskier wasn’t as good with a sword as he was with a lute, but everyone had their own talents. Geralt decided he liked travelling with a companion. No, not just any companion: he liked Jaskier, and he didn’t want to find him dead any time soon. Fortunately Jaskier was young, so they had plenty of years ahead of them.


	2. Single-Handed Sailing

Geralt clung to Roach, urging her to go faster as dark trees flashed in the moonlight. Jaskier was alone, cut off from Geralt in the middle of the damned woods, and there was nothing Geralt could do to get to him quickly. He was already pushing Roach as fast as she could safely go on the rocky road in the darkness, and that was barely a canter. The idea of having years ahead of them suddenly seemed like something he’d taken for granted when he never should have forgotten about the inherent mortal nature of life. When Geralt and Jaskier had parted ways a few days ago everything had been fine… 

It was nearing the end of hunting season; it was still early fall but unseasonably cold: they’d woken to frost all around them just the night before, Jaskier shivering slightly as they packed up camp despite his cloak. Geralt worried it would snow early, so he wanted to get north before the weather turned even more sour by the time he got close to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier needed to get off the roads and back to Oxenfurt for the winter or he’d freeze to death. Geralt was loath to part ways with Jaskier so early, but with this cold… 

The bard wanted to travel with a group of performers to a nearby city for a harvest festival before settling in for the winter, so now had seemed as good a time as any to part ways. Geralt and Jaskier finally said goodbye, and Geralt had turned north in a dour mood.

A few days later, Geralt decided to spend one last night in a town as from here on out, it would be all chilly camping until he made it to the keep. Once settled down in the tavern, Geralt heard about a contract for a gryphon that had attacked a caravan nearby the day before. He had no plans to take the contract; there simply wasn’t time left, but something about it made him uneasy. 

Initially he just stayed quiet in the corner of the tavern with his hood up, hiding his hair and eyes and eating one last big meal. The conversation a few tables away was becoming louder and more animated. One of the men’s voices rose above the din as he stood up, gesticulating wildly. Geralt could tell he was a bard just from his ostentatious clothes - a bard who was declaring he’d been with the caravan when it was attacked. Something icy started to crystallize in Geralt’s chest, and he fought it down. Lots of bards travelled in caravans. Could’ve been any caravan, not necessarily the one Jaskier had been in-

“And then he told us to run for the woods, said gryphons don’t like hunting in the trees, so we started running, and this damn fool stayed behind!!” the bard gesticulated. The icy shard grew. Maybe it was common knowledge gryphons didn’t like hunting in the woods. Most people knew that, right? But the idiotic bravery…

“So we ran - and I looked as we made it to the treeline, and this bloody fool had a rapier out and was yelling at the beast! He was backing up, back the way we came into some more trees, but he had a long way to go as the monster started to swoop-”

Lots of bards had rapiers, right?

“-and I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t look away ‘neither, as the thing raked him to the ground, never seen anyone hit by something that hard. Well at that point I didn’t want to see a man get eaten, so I turned and ran the rest of the way back to town.”

“Damn,” said someone else, and the bard nodded.  
  
“It’s a shame… bloody idiot. He was a good bard. Hanging around that fucking Witcher filled his head with the idea he was some kinda hero-”

There was a loud scraping of wood on wood as Geralt rocketed to his feet, the table not fast enough to get out of his way as he strode across the tavern in two steps and grabbed the front of the bard’s shirt.  
  
“Where?” Geralt growled, glowering down at the bard.  
  
“Oh shit -”

“That’s the fucking White Wolf-”

Geralt ignored them, his eyes tearing into the bard. The man had the common sense to not ask any stupid questions, and just started babbling.  
  
“Couple miles south of here! The backroad, we were taking a short cut! Figured there was safety… in numbers…” he trailed off as Geralt dropped him, storming for the door. He grabbed Roach out of the stables and tacked her up as fast as he could, then raced down the road leading south. His only saving grace was the fact that it hadn’t rained in the past three days, so any evidence, any scent, should still be there, if he could only get there in time.

So here he was, trying to make Roach run faster than was safe, begging to anyone who was listening that he would find the right clearing, and that Jaskier would be alright. It had only been one day and a night - surely, as long as any of the injuries weren’t life-threatening, Jaskier would be alright - but the temperature… the wind was cutting across Geralt’s face as he raced, not cold enough to see his breath just yet, but dangerously close. 

He came upon a clearing as the height of night approached, and he slowed Roach, slipping off of her as she stirred restlessly beside him.  
  
“I smell it too,” he said, reaching up to pat her neck.  
  
Blood. Not just human though - gryphon, too. If nothing else, Jaskier had injured it before- before what, Geralt refused to speculate on, even though every instinct, every word he’d ever read, everything he personally knew about gryphons told him there should be no chance at all. At least it was night; there was another boon, because it meant the gryphon would be roosted and asleep, so he wouldn’t have to fight it right now. Revenge could wait for tomorrow, if-

Geralt forced the thoughts aside and left Roach on the road as he stepped into the clearing alone. Pure white moonlight cast a silvery haze over the forming frost, and everything was eerily quiet. Geralt carefully made his way across the field, watching the ground for signs of a struggle. If the worst happened, there wouldn’t be much of anything left behind; gryphons carried away their prey whole. Geralt looked down, and his hands were shaking, so he clenched them into fists. He saw cart ruts, footprints, evidence of a mad dash into the woods to the northeast, where the others had fled while Jaskier stood his ground. Geralt stepped further into the field, and though the signs were muted, there was evidence of one person heading away from the group, running to the southwest, leading the gryphon away from the group. 

Geralt’s pace sped up as he followed the tracks. The smell of blood strengthened, and he swallowed as he came upon a spot of roughened earth. Something large had landed here; the impact between the gryphon and Jaskier… and here was the strongest scent of blood. Again, not just Jaskier, but the gryphon too. Had he managed to hurt it enough to dissuade it, even for a second? For a moment Geralt was so distracted he couldn’t find anything, and fear clenched in his chest; he circled around a second time, hearing his pulse in his ears - and there, there, footprints he’d almost missed. Relief washed through him, even though he knew all this might mean was that Jaskier stumbled away, injured, and died alone. The thought came unbidden.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and hurried his way along Jaskier’s trail into the woods. He could still smell blood; Jaskier had been bleeding as he ran, but his pace had still been good, so maybe the injury wasn’t that bad, or at least it hadn’t been to his legs. The trail was easier to follow in the woods; broken branches and the blood trail lead him right to a small patch of cleared ground and -

And a dark shape on the ground curled around a dark fire, burned out. Geralt went to the fire first, he wasn’t sure why - for a moment he wasn’t thinking very clearly. But as he got close he felt the remaining warmth and saw the pale red light of hot embers. It had burned down only an hour or two ago; from the amount of wood, it could have burned for a few hours before dying out, which meant, if nothing else, Jaskier had made it through the first night and day alone out here. 

He turned to the dark lump now, stepping over carefully, his heart in his throat. It was Jaskier, curled up under his cloak and a ramshackle covering of sticks, pine needles and leaves, fitfully asleep. The pale moonlight wasn’t helping with his pallor, and he didn’t look well. Geralt fell to his knees and quickly reached out, searching for a pulse at the bard’s neck. After a few tense moments he found one - but he couldn’t feel fully relieved just yet.  
  
“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was hoarse, though he didn’t know why. “Wake up.” He reached up and gently shook the bard’s shoulder - he still didn’t know where he was injured, and -

Jaskier groaned, pain lancing him awake. His eyes opened hazily, looking up and catching onto Geralt right away.  
  
“Ger- fuck-” 

“Jaskier-” Geralt pressed his warm hand against Jasker’s cold cheek, and Jaskier closed his eyes again, soaking it up.  
  
“F-fraid I - fire went out, couldn’t - enough wood,” Jaskier chattered, the cold catching up to him now that he was awake. Shivering clearly wasn’t helping with the pain in his shoulder and he winced again.  
  
“I have to get Roach,” Geralt said quickly. “I’ll be right back - just hold on.” He swept his eyes around the tiny camp again, and then back to Jaskier as pride welled in his chest. 

“You did a good job,” he said softly, and then he was on his feet, racing back through the woods to the field and back to Roach as fast as his feet could carry him. He rode her back to the edge of the woods, then led her into Jaskier’s tiny camp. Geralt realized Jaskier had managed to form a bit of shelter from what little he had available; the pile of leaves and pine needles he was huddled under was an attempt at a lean-to, limited by a lack of rope and anything to brace it on besides himself. Still, it was a damn good shelter considering Jaskier had built it while wounded.  
  
“Jaskier,” Geralt knelt back down. As he gently moved the haphazard shelter aside it crumbled into nothing. Jaskier looked up at him, still awake but shivering forcefully now. Geralt made a snap decision; it wasn’t that long of a ride back to town, and his clothing was warm enough. He pulled off his own cloak and wrapped it around the bard, whose face immediately relaxed as the heat soaked into him. Geralt pulled him up so he was sitting, then standing, and finally pushed him up into the saddle. He climbed up behind, and carefully guided them back out of the woods even though every inch of him was screaming for Roach to gallop. He had Jaskier; he was alive. That had to matter for now. The rest could wait. 

Still, he pushed Roach back up to a canter as they rode back to town; it was a rough pace for Jaskier’s shoulder, but Geralt needed to get the bard somewhere warm and he needed to take a look at the injury. After two days, a wound could very likely be infected beyond saving, and all of this would be for naught. Jaskier might already be a walking dead man. Geralt pushed that from his mind, too. He needed to focus right now.

They made it back to town as the faint glimmer of dawn was touching the horizon. Geralt was shivering a bit by now too, but he hadn’t spent two nights exposed in the cold and he was a mutant; he’d be fine. Geralt carried Jaskier into the inn and up to the room he’d paid for before all of this happened; now he was more grateful than ever he’d decided to spend the night. Geralt laid Jaskier down on the bed, still swaddled in two cloaks and covered in leaves, pine needles and dirt. Even the yellow light of the oil lamps couldn’t warm the pallor of Jaskier’s cheeks, and panic began rising again in Geralt’s chest.

Jaskier wasn’t complaining about the cold or the pain. He hadn’t complained the entire ride back, thought it must have hurt him to ride that fast. Instead, his jaw was set tightly, clenched against the shivers and the pain. His blue eyes were still hazy, but they stayed locked on Geralt any time he was in view. 

Geralt pulled away the cloaks to tuck them around his legs, and sucked in a breath at the sight of the shredded, blood-stained cloth of Jaskier’s doublet. As he pulled it off though, he saw a poultice beneath the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt. Another jolt of pride burst in his chest. Jaskier had done everything he could to make sure he survived - the poultice was full of plants that prevented infection, all things Geralt had taught him over the years.  
  
“You did a good job,” Geralt said again, using his knife to cut away the rest of Jaskier’s shirt so he wouldn’t have to move him too much - and he could have sworn he saw Jaskier pout through the pain creasing his face. He huffed out a laugh despite how inappropriate a moment it was for laughter, which only made Jaskier’s pout deepen.

“Ruining… m’shirt… n’laughing ’bout it,” he mumbled, and it took all of Geralt’s self control to hold back the hysterical laughter threatening to overpower him.  
  
“Hush,” he said, but to be honest, he’d never been happier to hear Jaskier speak. He pulled away the poultice and took a look at the wound. It… it was gnarled, but it seemed to all be tissue damage, and no broken or exposed bones. 

“Hell of a scar,” Geralt muttered, setting to work to clean the wound out properly, though it looked like Jaskier had managed to do that at least once, and the poultice had done its job in preventing infection.  
  
“Sexy,” Jaskier replied, and Geralt was laughing again. 

Somehow Geralt managed to clean and stitch up the wound, and then he finished undressing Jaskier from his damp clothes and tucked him under the covers. Jaskier slipped into true sleep as the sun rose. His skin looked a bit pinker, so Geralt slipped into a shallow meditation. He was tired and would have preferred to get some sleep, but for now, meditation would do as he sat by the bed, waiting for Jaskier to awaken. 

Finally, a few hours later, Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open again.

“Geralt?” 

Geralt’s eyes snapped open, and he immediately moved closer to Jaskier.  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes softened as Geralt came into view, and he smiled.  
  
“Wasn’t expecting anyone… wrong direction, you’re supposed to be north…”

“Some loudmouthed bard was yapping about an idiot throwing himself in front of a gryphon. Figured it had to be you.”

That brought a smile to Jaskier’s face, and he gave a soft huff. 

“I’ll have you know… wasn’t expecting to win that fight. I’m no Witcher,” Jaskier said. “Just wanted to give… enough time for the rest to get away.”

Geralt reached out and wrapped his hand around Jaskier’s hand and squeezed, hoping that if he held Jaskier tight enough, the fist clenching his heart inside his chest would let go.  
  
“Remembered what you always say… if you don’t kill it… you die,” Jaskier said as lightly as he could, but the reality of everything seemed to be hitting him, and his voice tightened, his eyes breaking away from Geralt to stare at the ceiling, his shaking hand clenching Geralt’s back tightly.  
  
“Shh- you-” Geralt wasn’t sure what to say, he was overcome by too many things all at once. He reached out with his other hand, brushing against Jaskier’s face, wiping away the tears that were now flowing from the corners of his eyes. “You didn’t die,” he said softly. “Third option - you run away, you hide, you survive,” he said. “Not an option for Witchers, but clearly an option for bards.”

Jaskier gave a wet, sobbing laugh, looking back at Geralt.  
  
“You did so well,” Geralt said for the third time, hoping it would sink in if he said it enough. “You - everything - All the things I showed you over the years, you did all of it just right, and you survived,” he said, his own voice tight with emotion. 

“Even started a fire without flint,” Jaskier said a bit proudly. “Shoulder didn’t like that, but I knew I had to… managed to keep it going the first night, but then… the pain got the better of me. Got too cold, too much pain…”

“It’s alright,” Geralt said again, his voice rough. “You did enough. I found you.”

There was a long, quiet pause between them, heavy with things they weren’t saying.  
  
“Did you sleep?” Jaskier finally asked, followed a second later before Geralt could answer, with “Fuck I’m hungry.” Geralt huffed softly and pulled away so he could stand up. 

“I’ll go get us some food.”

“Oh hell, where are we, an inn?” Jaskier groaned. “I don’t have any of my coin, or my bags, they were on the cart - my LUTE! Oh fuck my lute, I-”

“I’ll ask the bard from the caravan; they’re still here. I’ll make sure to get your things back,” Geralt promised, and Jaskier settled back down. 

Geralt headed downstairs; apparently the news of the rescue had spread through the town like wildfire, and there were plenty of people offering up coin and food; Geralt soon had more than he needed. He and Jaskier ate lunch upstairs. After, Geralt managed to contact the merchant in charge of the caravan’s carriage and got back all of Jaskier’s things, including his lute - after a bit of glowering.

They stayed for another night, but despite the generosity of the town, they were eventually going to run out of money. There was also the pressing issue of the seasons; Geralt truly needed to get on the road back to Kaer Morhen, and there was no way Jaskier could come even though Geralt was beginning to realize that was what he wanted. With this injury, there was simply no way Jaskier would make the journey. Geralt couldn’t choose to stay south either; so they had to part again. 

This time though, Geralt stayed with Jaskier as the they headed west, letting him ride Roach until they reached the outskirts of Oxenfurt and Geralt was sure no gryphons would attack him. The extra days on the road also let him watch Jaskier's shoulder, to make sure it was healing as well as it could. Yes, it added more time to his eventual journey north as he was going in the completely wrong direction, but in a turn of surprise, the weather had gotten warm again; a last gasp of late summer sweeping away all the frost.

Outside Oxenfurt, Geralt helped Jaskier down out of the saddle, and slung the bard’s bags over his good shoulder for him. Then… 

“Jaskier.”  
  
“Yeah?” Bright, quizzical cornflower blue eyes looked over at Geralt. 

“Don’t die before spring,” Geralt said gruffly, and pulled himself up onto Roach. Jaskier gave him an extremely judgmental look and began asking what exactly that meant as Roach snorted in disappointment, but Geralt ignored them both and turned north. The warm weather followed him almost all the way north, and he didn’t see snow until he was nearly home. He didn’t know what to make of that


	3. Tandem Sailing

Geralt hurried down the mountain in early spring, so early the snow was still thick on the mountain, but he knew it would get better as he went, so he risked it. If the other Witchers had opinions about that, they kept it to themselves. He made poor time the first few days, but once he broke into the tree line the snow cleared, and he rode for Oxenfurt without taking a single contract along the way. 

The trees were still in bloom when he got to the city, a testament to how early he’d left and how fast he’d gone. He entered the city and headed for the academy. Jaskier always said this was where he spent the winter, but Geralt had never actually visited; now he worried Jaskier might not actually be here at all. He had never been the one to seek Jaskier out in the spring; the bard had always come to him. Now that the tables were turned he was actually impressed Jaskier had ever been able to find him, because he didn’t have a clue how to start. He tracked monsters in the woods, not people in cities - and he was realizing those were clearly two different skill sets. He needn’t have worried though; he was recognized outside a tavern almost immediately, and when confronted by the barman, he decided to be honest.  
  
“Looking for a bard. Jaskier,” he said, and was relieved when the barman told him Jaskier would be there that night to perform, warming up to head back out on the road. 

“You’re the Witcher he always sings about, aren’t you?” the barman asked, and Geralt gave a shrugging nod. As far as he knew, most of Jaskier’s recent songs about Witchers were about him, but he didn’t want to presume they were all about him. Geralt didn’t like the look the barman gave him; somehow a combination of piteous and patronizing, so he wandered off and took a seat in the corner to wait for evening. He was left alone for the afternoon, but as the sun dropped closer to the horizon he became antsy, wanting Jaskier to show up. 

The sky was blazing red outside the windows when the front door of the tavern opened and Jaskier finally stepped inside. He was decked out an outfit just as ostentatious as everything he always wore, but Geralt wasn’t used to seeing the bard buttoned up from head to toe; in his experience, the bard’s clothes were usually half-falling off of him. It had a very different effect, and Geralt realized he was staring at Jaskier like he’d never seen him - or anything - look so beautiful. He was so entranced he didn’t realize Jaskier’s head was craning around, clearly looking for someone - until his face lit up as it always did as his blue eyes found Geralt in the corner. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said softly, and somehow Geralt heard him from across the tavern. Instead of heading right over though, Jaskier plopped himself up on a table near the bar, and began singing. It was a new song, obviously composed over the winter season, and it was a highly exaggerated tale of a Witcher saving a caravan from a gryphon. It was apparently very popular as several of the patrons knew the chorus. Geralt briefly wondered why Jaskier hadn’t set himself in the starring role of the story, but the thought was pushed aside in favor of watching Jaskier perform. 

There was applause as Jaskier finished, and then finally he swooped through tables and chairs and descended into Geralt’s corner with a rush of perfume. Geralt’s nose wrinkled, the spell momentarily broken.

“Why do you smell like that?”

Those were not the first words Geralt had expected to say to Jaskier; those were not the words he had rushed through snow to Oxenfurt to say, but those were the words that came out of his mouth. 

“We are in civilization my dear, everyone smells like this,” Jaskier replied with a huff.

“The barman doesn’t smell like that.”

“Why are you so concerned about how I smell!?”

“Because I know how you’re supposed to smell!” Geralt snapped, and they both had a moment of awkward reflection. 

“Well,” Jaskier broke the silence first as usual, taking a seat next to Geralt. “I wasn’t expecting to see you in Oxenfurt, and so early…”

“Mm.” Geralt was finding words more difficult than usual. He blamed it on winter; at Kaer Morhen he rarely spoke, certainly less so than he did when he was around Jaskier all summer.

“I will take that as an apology for insulting my perfume,” Jaskier said lightly, which earned him a glower. 

“How’s the shoulder?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier reached up, pressing against the former wound. 

“You are far too good at stitches, I am hardly scarred at all,” Jaskier replied dramatically. “No one believes me when I say I fought off a gryphon single-handedly,” he said with a forlorn tone. “And thankfully it doesn’t seem to have affected my playing ability - I was a bit out of practice for a few weeks while I healed but that was quickly regained - oh, you’ll never guess who I met this winter-”

Jaskier trailed off into a rambling story about another bard, and Geralt settled in to half-listen, a sense of relief filling him up. Jaskier was fine - he seemed entirely himself in fact, but there was still something left unsaid in the air, and they could both sense it. 

“-and they do not like red wine,” Jaskier finished. He looked at Geralt for a moment, and then stood up. Geralt snapped to attention as Jaskier moved away, but the bard smiled.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” Jaskier offered, and Geralt nodded. Jaskier hefted his lute up onto his good shoulder and they headed out into the night air. The sun was fully set now, and a cool breeze was rolling in off the river. Jaskier led them down to the water; the shore was sandy and easy to walk on, and a tall wall held up the city behind them, sheltering them from the lights and sounds of the street above.  
  
“Can’t see the stars as well here,” Jaskier said, looking up into the sky. Geralt looked too, and it was true: the lights of the city made the night sky look dim in comparison, only the brightest stars poking through, the usual deep blue varying hues of the night sky all muted into inky blackness. 

“You didn’t come all the way here to tell me to stay away, did you?” Jaskier asked, the worry heavy in his voice. 

“No,” Geralt said quickly, his eyes still on the stars. The thought had occurred to him during the winter; to try to avoid the bard, to keep away for the bard’s own safety, but the fact was the gryphon attack had happened when they weren’t together. The dangers of the road had nothing to do with Geralt’s presence. That wasn’t what was weighing on his mind; rather, he didn’t know how to tell Jaskier he’d spent all winter thinking about him, or even if he should.  
  
“Oh excellent. I wouldn’t have listened anyway, and we both know how good I am at finding you,” Jaskier replied. “You’ll never be free of me,” he joked, glancing over at Geralt, who was still resolutely staring up into the sky.

“Good,” Geralt replied, and Jaskier looked at him keenly. 

“Are you admitting you missed me? Did you fret about me?” Jaskier asked incredulously. “Imagine you, brooding up on that mountain in the snow all winter lo-”

“I did,” Geralt said, and Jaskier fell silent for one long moment. 

“After all these years?" Jaskier wondered softly. "Why now? Did it take being mortally wounded for you to miss me?”

“Every year,” Geralt said gruffly, and he finally glanced down at Jaskier, who looked stunned.

“What - even the first year, when I was a completely useless nuisance?”

“Even the first year,” Geralt confirmed. Jaskier didn’t say anything, so Geralt found himself continuing. “You wanted to learn. You tried so hard, even when the road got rough. You stuck around. Could’ve left, but you didn’t.”

“And here I thought I was just being annoying and stubborn,” Jaskier replied. 

“You were,” Geralt grunted affectionately. 

“Hm,” Jaskier said, borrowing Geralt’s favorite word. “So… you came all the way here, this early in the season… just to see me sooner? No contracts, no other reason?”

Geralt nodded; what else could he say? It was the truth. He was here because of Jaskier, no other reason. 

“Geralt, that is what some would consider hopelessly romantic behavior,” Jaskier said, his tone light enough it could be interpreted as a joke, if his assumption was wrong, if he was off the mark even slightly. 

But he wasn’t.

Geralt reached out, and he could hear Jaskier’s heart thudding, the playful smile on his face a fragile mask hiding frail hope, replaced by heat and hunger as Geralt’s thumb brushed against his cheek just as it had so many months ago, and his fingers wrapped around the back of his neck. 

“Geralt-” Jaskier’s voice was suddenly rough, and Geralt stopped holding himself back and leaned in, taking the bard’s lips with his own. Jaskier’s hand came up, mirroring Geralt’s and winding into his hair as their mouths opened for one another, the only sound their soft panting in the moonlight. Geralt wrapped an arm around the bard’s waist and pulled him in close; Jaskier’s hand hooked itself through the front of Geralt’s belt as panting turned to moans, teeth joining the kiss as they both bit and tugged at lips and tongue.

They parted after several minutes, shaking and breathing hard. Geralt pressed his forehead against Jaskier’s and just stood there, soaking in the moment stretching out between them.

“You need a bath,” Jaskier muttered, bursting the bubble and making Geralt snort. “What? It’s true. You smell like Roach - like you haven’t seen a river or tub in two weeks.”  
  
“I haven’t,” Geralt replied. He’d been too keen on getting here to waste time on bathing. 

“Ugh. Geralt. That is very romantic and all, but I do insist you get cleaned up.” Jaskier’s tone was admonishing, but his eyes were soft as they pulled apart. Jaskier led them back up into the city and knew the perfect inn to spend the night that would provide them with a tub large enough for both of them.

They set their things down quietly in the room, moving around each other with an extra layer of carefulness, as if they were both afraid a sudden movement would wake them up. They had done this plenty of times, bathed together - but not like this. Geralt kept noticing tiny things; the way Jaskier licked his lips idly as he undid the laces on his boots, the flick of his fingers as he undid the buttons on his wrists, the way he reached up with one hand for the buttons high up on his doublet. Just one hand, his good hand - despite everything he said, he’d clearly adapted to using his left arm slightly less-

“Wait,” Geralt said, and Jaskier looked over at him, his eyes darkening with worry again. Geralt stood and walked over, placing his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, staring at the place where fabric met skin. “Let me.”

There was only a fraction of a pause, and then Jaskier nodded, lifting his chin to make more room for Geralt’s large hands against his neck. A shaky breath, and then Geralt started to undo the buttons one at a time, working his way down Jaskier’s chest until his shirt was exposed, looking far more like the disheveled Jaskier he was used to. Geralt placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, slipping them between the doublet and his shirt, pushing it slowly down over his shoulders until it fell to the floor. 

Jaskier was breathing heavily again, and fuck it, so was Geralt; their mouths collided again, but Jaskier wasn’t idle; his hands worked at Geralt’s belt, metal clinking in the quiet room as their mouths raised the temperature by several degrees. Jaskier pulled Geralt’s shirt up out of his pants once the belt was undone, and Geralt’s fingers fumbled for the buttons on Jaskier’s own pants, determined to get them both undressed as quickly as possible. They pulled away long enough for Jaskier to claw Geralt’s shirt over his head, and Geralt helped Jaskier out of his own shirt while their mouths were parted. 

Their pants slipped away and they stepped into the tub together. Geralt finally got a good look at the scar on Jaskier’s shoulder and his brows drew together, his breath catching for a moment. It was thick and twisted and rough, and obviously whatever damage had been done under the surface affected Jaskier’s movement to some degree; despite what he’d said it very much looked like he’d won a fight against a gryphon. 

“I’d believe you,” Geralt said softly, reaching out to trail his fingers along the scar. Jaskier laughed.

“You were there, idiot, of course you believe it,” Jaskier replied equally softly, reaching out of the bath to collect a glass bottle of soap. 

“Technically only after the fact,” Geralt reminded him. 

“Dunk your head,” Jaskier replied, letting the confession of guilt pass without comment, forgiveness not granted because it wasn’t needed. Geralt sank beneath the water, the warmth soothing, pooling inside him. He rose to the surface and closed his eyes as Jaskier worked his fingers along Geralt’s scalp, lathering up every inch of his hair and rinsing away weeks of grime.

“Why did you follow?” Geralt asked a few minutes later, his own fingers now soapy and buried in Jaskier’s hair. 

“For the same reason you let me find you every spring,” Jaskier replied simply, and that seemed to be all they needed to say on the matter. 

Somehow, at some point, they were kissing again, soap-slick water the only thing between them as they pressed skin-to-skin in the water until it cooled, and they finally dragged themselves out onto the bed. 

Geralt laid Jaskier out beneath him and moved his mouth from the bard’s lips to his neck, tasting his skin as Jaskier moaned beneath him, his hands wandering down Geralt’s back and up his chest, fingers pressing against all the scars he’d seen over the years but never touched. Geralt moved his mouth down to Jaskier’s chest and the bard’s fingers worked their way into his damp hair as he pressed kisses down Jaskier’s sternum, inch by inch until he reached his stomach. Geralt looked up at Jaskier then, and his face was flushed, his breath coming in gasps. 

“If you stop now I’m going to rip your hair out,” Jaskier threatened, tightening his fingers in Geralt’s hair. Geralt breathed out a laugh, and finished his trek down Jaskier’s body until he finally reached his length, which was laying quite proudly against his stomach. The guttural moan Jaskier let out as Geralt’s mouth closed over his cock was extremely gratifying, as was the way his hips rocked and the way his fingers tightened even more in Geralt’s hair. He spent several minutes slowly swallowing the bard down, until he was moaning and writhing and swearing, bucking up into Geralt’s mouth.

“Yes, fuck! Geralt-don’t-stop, ah - ah - I -” Jaskier came with a deep groan, his hips lifted off the bed, pressed up into Geralt’s mouth as he shook with climax before finally sagging down with relief. 

“Oh fuck you’re extremely good at that,” Jaskier panted, catching his breath quickly and looking around for Geralt, urging him up into his arms to kiss him again.

Geralt went willingly, folding himself into Jaskier’s arms, pulling him close and kissing him deeply until a moan was torn from his throat as Jaskier wrapped his hand around Geralt’s cock. Jaskier kept kissing him, pressing kisses to Geralt’s mouth even as his jaw went slack, his lips parted in a pleasured ‘o’ as he thrust into Jaskier’s hand, panting open-mouthed as he was dragged over the edge by strong, clever fingers. They shuddered, breathless in one another’s arms as they both settled down from the high of arousal into a smoldering warmth, mouths finding each other, hands slowly running across skin and scars until they both fell asleep on top of the covers. 

In the morning they packed up Geralt’s things, and Geralt waited at the edge of town while Jaskier went back to his rooms to gather everything he needed for the road. Roach was just starting to get antsy to move when a melody trailed up the road; Geralt turned, and there was Jaskier walking along, lute in his arms, softly plucking a tune as he crested the hill. Geralt smiled; small and barely noticeable but there, and pulled Roach onto the road as their paths joined up, Witcher and bard headed east down the road. 


End file.
